Give A Little More
by Jayden Shay
Summary: Sam/Lucifer; Sometimes it seems like the only reason they're together is to hurt each other.


"Oh, don't be such a melodramatic little bitch," Lucifer drawls, glancing up from where he's picking at his nails with Sam's knife. He's sprawled across their bed, and for some reason, just the sight of him looking so relaxed and pleased with himself is enough to trip Sam.

"Oh, sorry, you're right," He snaps back, fixing the angel with the iciest expression he can manage, "It's _only_ thirty people." Not like he cares; the bastard's killed more than that on a whim. But Sam's not so crass or so disillusioned that he'll trivialize it. He cares, alright?

"Really?" Dean rolls his eyes as he shuts the laptop, drawing the attention of his brother and the angel both. It's a grievous mistake in Sam's opinion, annoyance already close to bubbling over the top whether it's his brother's fault or not. "I swear, you two do it on purpose." He complains, much bitchier than he has any right to be. Their conversation has nothing to do with him, thank you very much. But his brother grabs his jacket before Sam can return the favor, jangles the keys in his pocket to make sure they're still there, and – in probably the best decision he's made all night – he heads for the door.

"Call me if the place is still standing when you're done." And then Dean's gone, and Lucifer's chuckling from the bed, still sprawled out like he owns the place.

"Shut up." Sam tells him. He's not in the mood for Lucifer's bullshit. Oh, he's so not in the mood.

"Make me." The challenge is less unexpected than it isn't. It's pretty par for the course actually. Ever since the other angels figured out that they didn't need a devil for the apocalypse after all – fucking zombies – it's been one fight after another, and Sam doesn't know how it ever got to that point, but he doesn't quite care either. At least, not when Lucifer's smirking at him from the bed, daring Sam to try something with him.

But Sam's had enough of this shit. He's not going to give Lucifer the satisfaction and take his bait.

He flips the page with a bit more force than is really necessary and of course the stupid fucking page rips right out of the goddamn priceless old artifact. "Do you care at all?" Sam bursts out in frustration, the paper crumpling in his hands as he balls them both up into fists. He can't take this anymore.

"Hmm?" Lucifer's gone back to playing with his knife, twirling it distractedly between his fingers. He's not even looking at Sam. "You people die all the time. What do you want from me, an epic ballad about the unfairness of it all? Get over it."

"I'm so fucking tired of you getting on my case for actually giving a shit about someone other than myself!" Sam bursts out, nearly knocking over his chair as he stands, the angry words spilling out of him as if a dam's burst loose in his throat. "Get over yourself! You still think you're just the most important being in the universe, but guess what – you're not! Sorry to break it to you princess, but people matter, okay? They fucking matter. And you know what? It's your goddamn fault that they're dying, so you might as well show a bit of sympathy every once in a while! And put my fucking knife down!"

Sam knows he's gone too far as soon as the words leave his mouth, and when Lucifer looks up at him, his eyes are nothing but ice. He's not sorry though; it feels good to watch his words tear the angel apart.

A snarl, "Fine!" and then Sam's knife zips past his head to bury itself in the wall behind him.

Lucifer's sitting up now – Sam's got his undivided attention all right – and he isn't bothering to disguise the rage just barely beneath the surface. He should be afraid, but Sam's too far gone by this point, a mix of adrenaline and rage of his own burning up his insides and spurring him on.

"You. Insolent. Insignificant. Little maggot." Lucifer hisses, his words as quiet as Sam's were shouted but no less sharp. He gets up from the bed, moving in like a jungle cat. "You can barely comprehend your own existence and yet you seek to judge mine! Speak to me of selfishness when you can physically _drown_ in the bodies around you! You have yet to see a tenth of the things I have."

He's close enough that Sam can feel his breath on his lips, and a shove is all it takes to send Sam back into his chair – close enough to the wall that they end up balanced against it, leaving dents in the plaster.

It sends golden spots flying in front of Sam's vision, but he doesn't feel the pain – just the knives in his angel's eyes, the hate rolling off him in thick, cloying waves. "Tell me what a bastard I am Sam," He's grinning dementedly as he reaches behind Sam to pull the knife from the drywall, offering up yet another challenge as he brandishes it in Sam's face. "You knew from the start that this was what you'd get-"

Lucifer gets eerily calm in another blink – or at least, he'd appear to be to anyone else. He caresses the side of Sam's face with the blade, tucking his hair back in a tender mockery, but Sam knows him well enough to look past it even as he shivers under the cool metal touch. "Tell me you hate me," Lucifer whispers, almost compelling under the vicious clench of his jaw. "Tell me you hate me and I will walk out that door."

"Fuck you." Sam snorts, "I'm not cleaning up your mess."

It's enough. Lucifer drops the knife, yanks Sam up by his shoulders, and nearly throws them both across the room onto the bed. He's on top of Sam from the start, slamming him down hard enough to knock the air from his lungs and attacking his mouth to steal the rest before it even registers.

That's all the world comes down to in an instant – it's all teeth and nails, ripping and tearing and biting and clashing together over and over, but Sam can give it as well as he gets. They're both snarling at each other like animals, fighting for control and trying to pull each other to pieces. No way to keep track – it's a blur – Sam's mouth tastes like their blood and there's skin under his nails, fabric long since demolished.

They wind up lying side by side on a pile of torn, bloody sheets; bruised, battered, and altogether satiated. Lucifer could heal them both, but he doesn't. Not yet. Instead, Sam feels the broken mattress creak as he closes the distance between them, tangles his feet with Sam's and licks the blood from a gash on his arm.

"I love you," He whispers, no more heat left in either of them, and Sam sighs an agreement.

He buries his face in Lucifer's shoulder, reaching up lazily as he rolls over until he can feel the ridges left by his nails in the otherwise soft skin of his angel's hip.

"Thank you," Sam prays, and falls asleep in his savior's arms.


End file.
